


variability in the production

by entanglement



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Possible Character Death, annoying repetition, general foolishness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglement/pseuds/entanglement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>side effects</p>
            </blockquote>





	variability in the production

It starts at 30mg a day and can go up, in 5mg increments, to 100mg. Andrew nods. The side effects are restlessness, drowsiness, dry mouth- This is precisely where Andrew's attention starts to wander towards the waiting room to rest on one of the junkies fidgeting in one of the orange plastic chairs and furiously scratching at an itch that'll never subside. He's that junky cliche you see on television: hair stringy with grease, clothes two sizes too big from weight loss and the skittish glances at the people shuffling around him. It should be upsetting to see his prognosis acted out in front of him, but honestly, it's more like watching one of those nature shows about ants and feeling phantom insects crawling over his skin.

"I'll answer your first question for you," the woman says. Andrew's gaze drifts back to the nurse and he finally notices how tired she looks and a pang of sympathy rattles around somewhere inside his chest.

"What?"

"Will it get you high? Yes. But not in the way you're used to."

"Too bad."

As if this weren't humiliating enough of a process, a disapproving huff comes from beside him. Fletcher. Right. Fletcher brought him here. 

Here's how it happens: He misses a gig.

The shitty coffee table in his apartment is wobbly as fuck and when Fletcher braces a hand against it to reach down and grab Andrew to pull him up from the floor, he almost stumbles and falls on top of him. _You wish, you old piece of shit_ , his brain spits out, but the message scrambles on the way down to his mouth like a game of telephone and comes out as a laugh, his open mouth disturbing the dried puke on the side of his face. He remembers the anger in Fletcher's voice as he gently scrubs his face with a warm, wet paper towel. He remembers the candy wrappers on the floor and the crunch of them under Fletcher's shoe. Everything else is lost to the blur.

Here's how it happens:

It's not like the dried out, stale weed he found years ago, stashed behind a book on his dad's shelf. It had the quality of grass clippings and was a little too much like the dusty potpourri on the coffee table to be enjoyable going in, but it did get him high or at least what he'd assumed high to be back then. It wasn't like this. This is being plucked out of existence and the cravings soon knock drumming and Fletcher off his list of priorities. That's how it happens and this is what it comes to. The methadone clinic is a compromise.

"You can't go back home," Fletcher says once they're outside and the first dose is churning inside of Andrew's gut. "You can stay with me."

Would it kill the motherfucker to just ask for once?

  
-

  
Number of hands that have been around Andrew's dick in his lifetime:

Two, including Terence Fletcher's right now. No, not including his own.

Since beginning treatment, he'd fallen into the same trajectory he'd been on before with Fletcher pushing from behind (very funny; that'll happen later, though) and carefully avoiding the truth that gravity will eventually win and he'll arc back down into the inevitable crash. Until then, Fletcher keeps his ego well fed on the accomplishments his former student racks up in the process and Andrew keeps his own ego gorged on Fletcher's approval. Everybody wins, right?

He'd be lying if he said they hadn't been building to the kiss Fletcher lures him into one night while they're sitting on the sofa together. He'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good to be kissed like Fletcher kisses him, because there's a sense of worship in how he moves that he would never admit to in words. When Fletcher finally realizes Andrew's hard and he opens his fly to shove a hand in, Andrew can't help but remember the third chair flautist from high school orchestra that made it here first and how truly shitty that handjob was.

"Fletcher," Andrew breathes.

"Terence," Fletcher corrects.

He should feel guilty for this. He should remind himself Fletcher is over twice his age. He should realize they're feeding off each other in ways that are obviously unhealthy, but he tips his head in to let their lips brush again and murmurs his first name as directed.

-

Fletcher's obviously a glutton for disappointment. Three weeks after letting Andrew stay at his apartment, they're in bed together and he presses a newly cut key into the palm of Andrew's hand.

-

His stay with Fletcher lasts 40 days, which is probably about the same he would've spent in a rehab facility had his bargaining failed after getting caught.

He never gets asked why or how he picked up the addiction and when they shout at each other backstage before a show or at practices, it's never ammunition for Fletcher. It's undoubtedly the elephant in the room, though, considering he's still at the clinic regularly for his doses and he somehow manages to dodge the required therapy, but when Andrew announces he'll be going home, there's no argument. Shit, Fletcher even gives him a fantastic bon voyage fuck and helps him pack, knowing all along that there's no changing Andrew's mind.

It's too much. They both know it's too much to be around each other all the fucking time and if anything is going to trigger Andrew's decline, it's gonna be this, so Fletcher drives him home and doesn't wait for Andrew to make it to the door before driving off.

Anyway, here's how it happens: The clinic is understaffed and overworked, so Andrew leaves there the next day with multiple carryout doses.

There's no better. There's the gasp of air you catch when you manage to get your head above water, but you still drown if you can't swim. While he works his way through his supply, he turns over the key to Fletcher's apartment in his hand and considers his initial concept of a relationship and how it shifted to what it is now until the sharp edges of the key dissolve into a silvery blur.


End file.
